


Time of Our Lives

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Western, Blind Date, Cowboys & Cowgirls, M/M, Meet-Cute, Science Fiction, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 16:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18814837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Technically, the time travel offered by Blind Calendar Dates is "just" the company gimmick, but c'mon.Dean getting a date out of this deal is just the ice cream on top of the pie.





	Time of Our Lives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlumberousTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlumberousTrash/gifts).



> slumberoustrash said:  
> AU combo: blind date & time travel?

When push comes to shove, Dean is a nerd. Deep down. As deep down as he can stand, sometimes. Which is why when Sam finds the flier on Dean’s coffee table, Dean groans about how hard it is to find someone, and if he has to use a blind dating program, it might as well be an interesting one, right?

(Sam naturally points out that Dean can meet women anywhere, but fortunately, Dean is nowhere near as closeted about his bisexuality as he is about his nerd tendencies. Once Dean lectures Sam about the relative dearth of available men who are both A. willing to date a bi man and 2. intelligent enough to actually  _want_  to shill out for educational time travel, Sam sees the sense in Dean using Blind Calendar Dates as screening platform. Or at least Sam pretends to, and that’s good enough for Dean.)

And so Dean gets extra super vaccinated. He sits through the orientation classes with wide eyes. He takes notes on the safety tech to prevent the spread of their own germs into the environment, and he pays absolute attention to the surreal-yet-real elements he’d never known about the Wild West. 

Roller rinks had been a thing. 

Actual, honest-to-god, roller rinks. No roller blades yet, no, but the same kind of two-by-two wheel configuration with the giant rubber brake on the front that Dean had strapped on during a couple school field trips to the Re-Creation Recreation Center. 

Also? A lot of cowboys? Really fucking gay. Enough that as long as Dean keeps it middle-school levels of attention, they shouldn’t attract any hassle, but for all the rest of the people in his unit keep checking each other out, Dean barely even cares about getting a date.

He’s so fucking excited, and that’s even without getting a horse. 

-

On the day of their departure, Dean skips breakfast, as per the instructions. They’ll eat once they’re there, a notion as terrifying and potentially nasty as it is awesome. Everything tastes different, or at least it’s supposed to, back before companies controlled all the seed supplies and optimized them for shipping and shelf life over flavor. 

Everyone dresses separately, and when they all reconvene, Dean has the biggest, stupidest grin on his face. The boots alone. The  _boots._ And his belt and the pants and, just, shit, this is awesome. This is worth any price. Unless they match him up with a complete idiot, this is gonna be the best day of Dean’s life. 

People get called forward by pairs, once by a trio. Fiddling with his coat and relishing the feel of his hat against his head, Dean looks around at his dwindling prospector-esque prospects. Out of habit, he finds himself eyeing the ladies, but then, then his eyes snag on this man out of time. 

Most of his group, probably even Dean included, most of them look like they’re playing dress-up. Some look like actors on a break, temporarily out of character, but still very comfortable in what they’re wearing. 

This guy, though.

This guy, Dean has to struggle to recall, because holy  _shit,_ that is a scruffy-faced cowboy with resting showdown face if Dean’s ever seen one. 

Which Dean technically hasn’t. Yet. But he will, and soon, and this is one. This has to be one. 

“Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester,” their guide calls, and Mister Cowpoke strikes forward. 

Dean’s mouth falls open, because he knows that name. It’s a weird name, he’d noticed it in orientation, plus the guy’s ever-present trench coat and boxy, ill-fitting suit. Much like Dean, Castiel had been more of a loner, also too busy taking notes instead of chatting with the rest of the group. Dean had figured the guy was shy or awkward, or, or... something besides absolutely smoking hot. 

Good god, the difference an outfit makes. 

Castiel strides up to him, and there’s a surreal moment where Dean’s brain insists they’re about to duel at high noon, their modern setting aside. Instead, Castiel offers his hand. “Hello, Dean,” he says. 

“Hey,” Dean says like the smooth fucker he isn’t. 

Is. 

Totally is. 

They shake and hold. 

“You take a lot of notes,” Castiel says. 

“Wanna do this right, y’know?” Dean answers, aiming for practical and landing at defensive. 

“I know,” Castiel answers, nodding seriously, as seriously as anyone sane would take this opportunity. “I’ve blocked out the timeline of the day for optimum activity, but I don’t interact well. You seem more socially adept.”

“We got this,” Dean tells him. 

“We do,” Castiel agrees. 

-

And then they travel through time, all for the low, low price of way too much money.

-

Despite being told time and time again that it was every traveler’s mistake, Dean keeps thinking the world should somehow be in black-and-white. 

But it isn’t.

Because this is real. 

Dean looks at Castiel, and Castiel looks right back. 

“Where did you want to go?” Dean asks, and Castiel leads the way. 

They disembark from the false train car that masks their transit, following the bulk of their group. Everyone’s meant to keep to the designated areas, as memorized in orientation and absolutely not marked in this real world of the past: if hands and feet go outside the vehicle, they don’t always come back so well into the future. 

That’s still plenty of town to explore. 

They meander through streets of dust and undeniably organic smells. They look around in a general store and count out their limited supply of coin for the day for tiny keepsakes they’ll leave in a box for the Blind Calendar Dates parent company to dig up centuries from now and deliver to them as they return to their proper timeline. 

Dean goes with a harmonica. Castiel gets small notebook, but he stands back and asks Dean to buy it. 

Castiel’s like that through a lot of the day, holding back, keeping his elbows tucked in to keep from bumping anyone or anything around, like he doesn’t quite believe in the causal safety zone between them and the town proper. Hell, Dean doesn’t understand all the science behind it either, but he’s not about to look that gift horse in the mouth, not when there are real horses to look at. 

“Are you ever going to join in?” Dean asks, pulling on his roller skates while, yet again, Castiel lingers on the sidelines. 

Castiel frowns at him. “What do you mean?” he asks, in the tone of someone who already knows the answer. 

“We’re allowed to interact,” Dean points out. “We’re staying close to the station, we’re good. It’s okay.”

Tension plain in his shoulders, Castiel turns away from the raised roller rink, from the gleaming finish over the wooden boards. The time on the clock tower above the train station reports that they have plenty of time, as if the height of the sun wasn’t enough a hint, not when they have until sundown. 

“Cas?” Dean tugs on Castiel’s shoulder until Castiel turns back to him.

“I’m not very good at interacting,” Castiel says, head bowed, voice lowered to draw Dean in. “I’m not afraid of making changes, I’m just... Awkward.”

“Dude,” Dean says, and he leans in real, real close to whisper. “ _Look where we are._  Are you seriously telling me you can afford to do this more than once?”

Castiel looks back to him, his expression full of the kind of non-answer that means, yes, actually, yes Castiel can. 

“Oh,” Dean says, shifting back, giving Castiel more space. “Never mind. But I don’t, so I’m living the hell out of today. You okay standing here while I skate? ‘Cause I gotta try this.”

Castiel nods. 

Holding tight to the railing, Dean walks up the stairs and onto the rink. Unlike in the Re-Creation Recreation Center, there’s no classic music playing as everyone circles around, just folks talking, folks skating. It’s more relaxing than entertaining, but the point remains that Dean’s in the Wild West on a roller rink (on a date with a rich dude, no less), and days like this don’t just happen everyday, no matter how easily Blind Calendar Dates can travel back to them.

Under the heat, Dean slows, gliding more than skating, and as he comes around the rink again, he discovers Castiel missing. His stomach sinks, but Dean pushes through: this was never really about the person-date, only the calendar-date, and judging by the way Castiel went through orientation, the same is true for him. 

“Dean, wait,” says a voice from behind. 

Somewhat clumsily, Dean turns. 

Castiel wobbles up to him, slow and sliding, arms reaching out uncertainly. 

Dean catches him. Steadies him out. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says, and they skate. 

-

Coming home is fucking weird on a lot of levels, not the least that they were out all day and only gone a few hours. Travel lag is an issue they were all warned about, but it’s still weird shit. 

Their guides distribute everyone’s souvenirs, and Dean clutches his aged harmonica tight. Beside him, back in his boxy suit and too big trench coat,  Castiel gently, carefully opens his notebook to the first page, and they read the faint letters of his name in faded pencil he’d written only hours—centuries—ago. 

“Man, that was amazing,” Dean says, leaving the building with a huge grin on his face. “All that orientation crap, so worth it.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean turns. 

“Oh, uh. I’m parked over here,” Dean says, pointing. 

The motion of his hand slow but certain, Castiel reaches into his trench coat pocket. Delicate, deliberate, he holds out the faded notebook. 

“The last page,” Castiel says. 

Dean opens it. 

 _Pick a date_ , reads Castiel’s slanting handwriting.  _I’ll take you there_. 

Dean looks up at Castiel’s face, at his eyes, so serious and sincere. 

“The future sounds good to me, partner,” Dean says, and winks. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/) or [dreamwidth here](http://https://bendingsignpost.dreamwidth.org/).


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